Red
by Mor'ranrFricai
Summary: He wanted to get out of the darkness, to see something other than red, but he knew that would never happen, that he would forever be trapped in this nightmare that he had created.


**I've had this sitting on my computer for a while now. I decided that it was about time I posted it.**

**Disclaimed.**

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><p>He stalked down the hallway, each step placed precisely, and although he was still hesitant, he would never let it show as he confidently strode down the ancient floors.<p>

The walls on either side of him were once painted deep red, but now that paint was peeling to reveal a calmer forest green that had been there before the intense crimson. The green was probably from the time Urû'baen was ruled by the elves, for he could feel the grace radiating from those patches that shown through the red—a red that was put there once he assumed rule of the elegant city. The man, however, saw the green as a relief—it seemed that the only color he ever really saw was red, and he was sick of it. It was not just in the walls he saw the red, but in the boy's sword and in the dragon's scales, too. Worst of all, though, was the red of the blood. He couldn't stand the thought of all the blood. He was sick of it, sick of all the red, all the blood, all the malice. He wishes he could see more of the green, more life, more innocence.

Torches hung on these walls at common intervals flickering over the hall. The man noticed that they were placed in such a way that there were places where it was darker than others, and it shown on the wall, creating a subtle striped pattern. He found himself walking faster during these slight breaches of light, scared that the darkness would cloak him even more than it already had.

He wanted to get out of the darkness, to see something other than red.

His gaze cast downward, the man slowed and finally halted as he caught up with his thoughts. He should not even be conflicted in this matter, and even if he should, why now? He had been doing this for years, why was it all of the sudden getting to him? He was helping the people after all, guiding them through this uncertain time even though he himself seemed uncertain. The man shook his head and continued walking down the silent palace hallway, his dark cape billowing out behind him.

He supposed that even if what he was doing was considered wrong, that he was still helping his people. Is it not common knowledge that in every good story there has to be a villain, someone who takes away the good things in life to show their precious value? If the antagonist was not there, how would people find value in anything? In real life they would all end up like him, breaking when their carefree nature and feeling of invincibility took everything they cared about and loved before drowning in self-hatred and sorrow. That would be even worse than what he was doing now.

He still did not feel right about it, and it was only in these moments alone did he ever admit this. He was the iron fist that ruled all of Alagaёsia, after all. He sighed when he stumbled slightly and began to walk with more urgency. He needed to get away from here, from where his thoughts strayed to such pathetic ones of dissent.

Perhaps he should flee. Just pack up and leave the country. Or, in the very least, the city. He could get a cottage by the sea and free the land of his tyrannical rule. That way he would rid himself of this awful sense of liability. That was probably the worst emotion there ever was, accountability. Why anyone would aspire for such was beyond him.

Faster, he took off down the hallway, his footsteps echoing, his once-handsome face twisted in conflict. He could not afford to continue thinking these thoughts; they were driving him to the verge of insanity. If only he could get out of this hallway and to the throne room where things were far simpler and he could lie to himself, saying he longed for the red and embraced the darkness.

If only something would tell him what to do, how to handle this. He always preferred it when someone else was making the decisions, taking all the responsibility. Carrying out the orders was far easier than giving them.

So he froze in his tracks, beads of sweat trickling down his brow, and listened. Listening was, again, something he did only when alone. He listened to the erratic thumping from his heart, his heavy breathing, and the flicker of the flame. Off in the distance he could hear the women's screams and the children's wails. His ears strained as he tried to hear something else, something that he knew he would never hear, but so desperately needed. He needed guidance in this matter, and he knew he would never be able to come up with it himself. He begged silently to all the gods and higher beings that came to mind hoping they would send an answer. But, alas, none came, the silent halls stood mocking him and the void of sound was pulling him toward the darkness, and he cursed himself for being a fool as to think that someone—anyone—would ever help him.

Of course he knew he was wrong, he knew he had made awful choices in life, but he always held on to the small hope he might be doing the world good.

He looked to the sky in desperation as he staggered backward, like something had hit the wind out of him, not able to keep up the façade any longer, and he crumpled to the ground as his legs began to give out under him, not noticing that his sword was situated in a manner that the handle was protruding into his stomach. Silent tears streamed down the scarred face, from eyes that had seen unspeakable horrors and down cheeks that have felt unbearable pain.

The man had a revelation, one that he should have had years ago. Everything that made up his life was a fallacy; he was an insane human trying to rule the world. He was evil, tyrannical and mentally unstable. He was a hating force that oppressed the good things in life.

But what is love without hatred? Do we not define love through hatred? And hatred through love? They are two sides of the same coin, wholly different yet undeniably connected. One is needed to be felt for the other to have any meaning.

He desperately tried to defend himself with this, but that, too, seemed to become a lie slipping through his fingers. He was a mistake and a failure at life. He recalled the faces of those he had killed, the innocent sweet faces. The faces that haunted him while he was alone at night, keeping sleep from coming. He saw the world he created, the suffering and sorrow. It was too much for him to handle.

Perhaps this was the gods punishing him for the destiny he had chosen. They were up there, twinkling in the dark summer sky, laughing at his pain.

He knew which path he should take, but he could not. It was not that he would not go down the path of morals and ethics, but that it was impossible for him to do so. His fist pounded the floor beneath him so hard he could feel the skin break, yet he could not find the effort to care. The world seemed to fall apart around him, leaving him with nothing. He did not want to go back to those times where he was but a shell of his former self. He did not want to go back to a time that he was so desperate and empty that he accepted darkness as an escape from the numbness. But it was like a blindfold lifted from his eyes into a room of blinding light that he saw the errors of his ways, the full extent of his cruelty. The breaks in his thin pretense were bursting. He wishes he could take it back, take it all back, ever since he made that stupid, rash decision. Sobs racked his entire frame as he cried into his hands, desperately wanting it all to be a dream that he would wake up from at any point.

But Galbatorix knew that he would never wake up, never be able to take it all back, and never be able to escape the darkness or free his vision of red that was enveloping his entire being.


End file.
